


Ghost ship

by Prawnperson



Series: Alternate universes [9]
Category: Don’t Starve (Video Game)
Genre: (in the second chapter), Angst, F/M, Ghosts, Gore in first chapter, Humour, Tags to be added, au where all the sw characters die horribly in a bid for freedom from the islands, because it described dead bodies/decomposition, or something like that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2020-10-11 08:16:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20542967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prawnperson/pseuds/Prawnperson
Summary: Cold, still, dull and...dead.





	1. Chapter 1

Wilson swallows back bile, shielding Wendy and Webber as best he can with his arm, trying his best to herd them behind him.

“Don’t look.”

Willow peers over his shoulder, wincing at the sight and immediately returning to her previous stance, just barely hidden behind her boyfriend’s back.

Four bodies. Three distinctly human, one animalistic.

Wilson’s met plenty of the survivors when they were in rough shape. Most of them, in fact. He knows how to recognise a dead body when he sees them. That’s what these are. They’re cold, still, completely unmoving. Two of them have their eyes open. They are all at varying stages of decomposition, rotted by water.

Wilson feels like it would be bad to loot their belongings. It seems so different taking things from those bleached-white piles of bones. These are still recognisable as people. People like them.

Waves come up and lap at their feet almost mockingly, washing over the lower halves of the bodies and dragging them down the shore, only to push them back up again, leaving faint scuffs in the sand that are washed away in an instant. Wilson can make out the details of unnatural shapes below their soaked clothing. Inhuman deformations that are no doubt broken bones, a result of buoyant corpses being knocked against flotsam and jetsam for God knows how many days.

“We can’t leave them here...”

Willow finally whispers, half choking on the words she takes in the blood stains on the eldest human’s shirt. Mostly washed away by the salt water, but still clinging to the garment with a persistent and grizzly redness that’s almost more upsetting as a faded mark rather than a vivid one.

“Yes, let’s...Woodie. Let’s get Woodie and Wolfgang.”

———

They bury them in the graveyard. It’s not that far from the water’s edge, thankfully, nor is it too close to the camp. They want to spend no longer around the bodies than is necessary. They don’t enjoy moving them to the site of the burial.

Wendy and Webber are ushered into camp to be entertained by Wortox, much to Wendy’s upset. She is insistent she has seen worse. Much worse.

It’s all the more reason to shield her, in Wilson’s mind.

The freshly dug earth looks damp, and it’s almost mocking. Disrespectful, even. Woodie wants to say something, but finds that there’s nothing to say. They don’t know these people. They know nothing about them. He leaves to go back to camp with an anxious Wolfgang, leaving just Willow and Wilson at the graveyard.

“I tried to put their belongings near the grave.”

Wilson says, as though Willow can’t see what’s right in front of her. The smallest of the graves has a dented old crow sitting on top of it, already half sunken into the earth. It’s no more than the size of a shoebox, really. No less upsetting.

The second has a surfboard wedged into the ground in place of a makeshift wooden marker like the others have. There’s a large bite taken out of it. Willow and Wilson both wonder if that’s what did the poor girl in. They have a feeling it’s something much worse.

The third has a crockpot on top of it. It looks odd, to have cookware sitting on a freshly dug burial plot. Still, it’s about the only use for it, now. The wooden legs are rotted by water, and Willow imagines none of the others would want to eat from something they snatched from a decaying body.

The last of the graves is...empty, save for the single flower placed on all of the previous ones as well. Wilson feels bad about this one. The captain, he assumes. The hat seemed a pretty clear indicator, and the last thing he wanted was to strip the poor man of that. His symbol of authority. Not even to signify where his final resting place is. The one thing he has with him is the cutlass, and that was already in his belt loop.

“Let’s go. This isn’t nice.”

Wilson nods his head to his girlfriend, and they lace fingers awkwardly, not quite focused on the action as their eyes linger on the four fresh plots. It feels so much colder here than usual, and that’s saying something.

“Where do you think they came from?”

Willow shrugs and squeezes Wilson’s hand tighter.


	2. Chapter 2

“Are you quite alright, darling?”

Lucy hums, gazing rather serenely over the camp as the stars flit through the night sky. She and Abigail have nothing to fear, unlike the living survivors. Besides, the night is a nicer time for her to come out. If avoids any unnecessary alarm.

“It feels wrong tonight, mum.”

The girl mutters, shivers spilling down the length of her back. She hasn’t felt those since she first came here.

“What does, my love?”

“The air. It’s...it’s not right.”

The older ghost places a comforting hand on Abigail’s shoulder, soothing circles into what little of her back she can reach from the position.

“I’m sure it’s just the weather, dear.”

As if on cue, there’s a clatter. Both the spectres turn towards the source of the noise, and their eyes widen.

There are three spirits. Not the pale, pearly white kind they see after every bad fight. No, certainly not the kind that can be brought back with a simple heart. These ghosts are dull blue. Almost violet, powdery in colour and almost icy looking.

“Where are we?”

One of them finally stammers, immediately clapping his hand over his mouth as he hears the sound of his own voice, like a reflection of his own, repeated and layered and filtered through running water to sound almost eery. The eldest looking ghost immediately draws the cutlass from his belt loop, huddling the three others behind him with a snarl.

Abigail can’t help but wheeze out a laugh at how stupid they look.

“Now, now, darling. Don’t be rude.”

Lucy chides, although Abigail can make out the mirth in her eyes.

“Who are you?”

The girl of the group cries. There seems to be some kind of primate wrapped around her shoulders, cowering there like a pet. Lucy smiles gently and sighs. 

“My, it’s been quite some time since we’ve seen any of your sort. To start with, how about you put down that blade of yours, Captain. It’s no good to you now, you know.”

The leader of the ghosts scrunches up his face, doing no good to his already weatherworn appearance. However, the longer he spends looking at himself from the corner of his eye, his whole body seemingly powdery blue and translucent, the more he begins to resign. The two figures sitting calmly in front of them don’t seem at all threatening, upon further analysis, and if what the woman says about his cutlass is true, then, well...

He walks the short distance over to Lucy and Abigail, the other’s following along behind like anxious ducklings.

“My name is Lucy.”

“I’m Abigail Carter.”

The silence stretches on for longer than is comfortable for all the parties involved.

“And you are all?”

The girl of the quad is the first to speak.

“W-Walani.”

She croaks. Abigail smiles, as does Lucy, who immediately takes Walani’s shaking hands and closes her own over them.

“What a pretty name. What are your friends called?”

“Warly.”

Abigail’s grin grows wider.

“That’s a weird thing to call your kid.”

The man doesn’t respond, save for wider eyes.

“I’m assuming you’re the head of this little party, yes?”

Lucy watches the elderly man open and shut his mouth several times, before finally croaking out the name “Woodlegs.”

“Now, that is an odd one.”

The monkey-at least, that’s what Abigail is assuming it is-makes a piercing shrieking noise. Walani shakes visibly as the little creature trashes and yelps against her ear, lower eyelid visibly twitching.

“Wilbur.”

Warly announces, his voice just annoyed enough to come across as scolding. Wilbur silences himself. Lucy can feel a minimal amount of tension in Walani’s frame unwind.

“That’s all of you then. Well, I must say, I’m sure I speak for both Abigail and myself when I say that we’re delighted to have you! Welcome to the afterlife!”

There’s another stretch of silence, only this one is much longer than the last, before Walani promptly bursts into tears. Warly grips at her arm with a grip so tight she would bruise if she still could, eyes impossibly wide. Woodlegs breathes a string of curses, and Wilbur begins screeching again.

Abigail scrunches her nose up.

“Oh, dear. I never remember you being like this, mum.”


	3. Chapter 3

“There are a few rules to this whole affair.”

Abigail finally manages to get out. She isn’t sure how long it took to calm down the group of ‘shipwrecks’, as she’s decided to affectionately dub them as (to herself, of course, lest she rub salt into a fresh wound), but judging by the way the moon is slowly but surely falling down in the sky, it’s been quite a while.

“This can be a very pleasant afterlife, but only if you follow the rules.”

“What might them be?”

Woodlegs asks, wooden appendages folded up under himself as he gets used to the odd, almost numb sensation that comes with this new, spectral vessel.

“Rule number one, and probably the most important: never posses anyone, under any circumstances.”

Abigail swallows thickly as she recalls it. The blinking, writhing robot below her as she cautiously floated above them, their chassis trembling as they tried to recover from the sickly feeling of possession.

How wrong they were about not having a soul.

“Why is that, if I may ask?”

Lucy winces slightly at the genuinely curious tone of Warly’s voice. Well, she supposes it’s better than fear.

“Two souls in one body, it...it simply doesn’t work. Abigail tried it and...well, just don’t do it, ok? Only on objects, if you really have to.”

The four ghosts all nod dumbly, like a line of school children on their first day with a new teacher.

“Second of all, don’t reveal yourself to anyone yet.”

Abigail pipes up:  
“My twin sister, Wendy, May be able to handle it, but I’ll discuss with her when she thinks that the others are ready individually. Definitely don’t do it with the strongman or the mime or anyone else for a while.”

Walani sticks her hand up, waving it in the air, and Lucy nods for her to answer.

“How do we know when we can be seen?”

“It’s like a toggle. Trust me, you’ll know.”

Walani seems hesitant before nodding her head slowly. Lucy wonders if they’ll be this accepting of everything.

“Thirdly, whilst I don’t advise any romantic relationships with the survivors, it would be both hypocritical and untruthful of me to tell you they were all bad.”

Almost comically, Woodlegs raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t go to voice any questions he may have. Abigail makes a mock gagging sound in the back of her throat at the mere mention of dating. Yuck.

“Only when some time has passed, of course, and if you have a good friendship to start with. Normal relationship rules still apply on that ground, no ghostly aphrodisiacs, I’m afraid.”

Now, Lucy isn’t the smartest woman in the world, she knows. She can, however, gauge pretty well what she thinks these new friends of theirs may try first of all with their new corporeal forms, if what she’s learned about their personality in the past few hours is good evidence to go off.

“Mum, it’s going to be light soon.”

Abigail whispers, gently patting Lucy’s shoulder to get her attention. Lucy nods, taking note of the orange and pink hues currently tinting the sky in front of them as the sun begins to rise. No doubt Wilson will be getting up soon, the stickler that he is for “seizing ever day”. 

“You’re quite right, sweetie. Why don’t you folks-“

She cuts herself off abruptly whenever she realises that both Walani and Warly have fallen asleep, leaning against each other as Wilbur curls up in Walani’s lap like a cat. Woodlegs looks mere moments away from joining them. Lucy grew out of sleeping so long ago, she forgot ghosts like herself possessed the ability to do it.

“That’s just put me in mind of a nap.”

Abigail sighs, stretching her back out. 

“Maybe tomorrow. For now, we best be getting home, love.”

Referring to an axe and a flower as home is...questionable at best, but neither of them know what else to say about their respective objects.  
They’ve been within them so long, they feel just as much like home as the people who carry their spirits with them, both literally and metaphorically.

The two ghosts bid each other farewell with a hug, Lucy affectionately brushing Abigail’s pigtails from out of her collar, before making their way towards their vessels, leaving the four new ghosts asleep, hovering above the camp as peacefully as can be.

———

“You won’t believe the night I’ve had.”

Abigail whispers to Wendy, who has shown no signs of being awake other than a grumble of acknowledgement.

“I’ll tell you all about it, and them, when you get up.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Woodlegs perspective for the most part.

It’s certainly different from the islands, that’s for sure.

Woodlegs knew the islands. Knew them well. Knew how to navigate them, how to avoid them, which ones were good, which were bad, everything any good pirate should need to know. 

He’s not on the islands anymore, though. 

He’s spent most of the morning simply floating, trying to get used to the odd sensation of walking without his peg legs touching the ground at all. Without the impact of each step through his body. It’s so noticeable now that it’s gone.

The rest of his time he’s spent watching. There isn’t much else to do, from what he can gather. He’s not allowed to posses anything, and, while it’s not like he would usually let anyone tell him what to do, he can’t help but feel a little frightened of that little Canadian woman.

He finds it rather funny all the things he’s noticed just this morning that he would have simply ignored on any other day.

A prime example is the little child in front of him. Woodlegs is sitting across from him, watching as the boy-from what he can gather, his name is Webber-gazes at a flower, enraptured by it. Whenever he reaches out to touch it, he finds that his hands slip through it. That’s awfully jarring.

Webber, of course, picks the flower effortlessly, and clambers up to go gather more, leaving Woodlegs to sit alone on the grass. To ponder.

He doesn’t understand why he feels so alright with being on land. Normally, by now, he’d have long since started seeing those bristling shadows out of the corner of his eye. He can still see them now, but they’re incredibly faint, and they aren’t making any moves to attack him. Merely moving. Hovering around the survivors as though they’re waiting for something. It makes him shudder. Phantom chills run up his spine at the thought of having those things constantly up his back whenever he was alive. 

Well, maybe ignorance was bliss with those creatures.

Deciding that he’s had enough thinking about such grim details, he picks himself up again and hovers, no longer bothered with imitating the notion of walking if he doesn’t have to. It’s much faster this way, anyway.

He sees a lot of things from the birds eye view. The one with ‘W’ shaped hair is tinkering away at something with intense concentration. The morbid little blonde girl is checking the traps and quoting Hamlet as she puts the little creatures out of their misery. The largest of them looks around cautiously before eating a raw onion, unpeeled and still a little dirty. Woodlegs laughs, and forgets for a moment that he’s probably meant to be grieving over his own death.

He watches until the others all begin to scamper towards their respective tents. It’s only then that he realises how late it’s getting. Almost night, in fact. He looks around for the others, and can make out dimly glowing shapes in the distance, near the outer edge of the camp. From this far away, he can see that they all appear to be varying in hue, from almost peachy white to lavender to cerulean. The light they all give off is like a candle, cozy yet harrowing in the inky darkness of night.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s so calm. So calm. Quiet, peaceful, like there’s nothing to worry about. It’s funny, almost. Whenever he was alive, something as small as a slightly burned dish could send him into a downward spiral. Now, even as he floats above the spot where his corpse is decaying in the earth, he feels nothing but an odd sense of peace.

He likes this. Maybe that’s morbid, or freaky, but Warly likes himself like this. Pale blue and translucent, almost like clear water. He wonders where the scars have gone. 

“Hello?”

He calls, testing out his voice again. It’s still that same, harrowing whisper, and the giggle that follows is much the same. Oh, it’s silly, but it’s funny to hear himself with the voice of a cheesy horror film antagonist.

He can make out one of the smaller survivors across from where he’s sitting, next to his grave. He decides to approach them, and he’s immediately met by the sight of a mime glaring into a crockpot with a disgusted look.

“Mon dieu...”

He mutters. The pot is full of wet sludge, worse than Wilbur makes, even if not by much. The more alarming part of it is the way the mime straightens his back out just after Warly speaks, boss twitching slightly as he looks around. Warly blows down the back of his neck, and the living man shivers. Just that seems to be enough to make him leave, still glancing around awkwardly to try and see who it was that just dropped what felt like ice down his back.

Warly laughs again. It’s not malicious, but it is mischievous. He supposes he’s going to make up for being such a stick in the mud in life by being a bit of a tart in death.

He follows the other for a short distance, intentionally brushing his fingers across his back from time to time. The mime makes his way over to two other figures. A short, redheaded woman in armour and a man he’s certain could lift both of the others up effortlessly.

Without any hesitation, Warly runs his fingers up the mime’s spine, whispers nonsense into empty air just behind his head, and watches the delightfully uncomfortable way his shoulders tense. He can see the two in front of him make faces, the woman reaching out to try and keep the mime before he lets out a silent help and bolts.

Well, he deserved it for messing up his cooking so badly, didn’t he?


	6. Chapter 6

Walani buries her fingers further into the fur of the large, round shadow creature. It’s like a dog, she finds, obedient and friendly. 

Funny, she never saw this side of them before.

She’s sitting beside the robot of the camp, a one WX-78, from what she can gather. They can’t see her or the creature, but she still feels slightly better at the thought of them having company. They seemed such a prideful creature, she can only imagine what the snarky metal shell must be hiding. 

So, she waits for the sun to go down, keeping up the petting of the shadow monster in her lap, the one that’s been following her all day. The dark, hollow eyes of the robot reflect the firelight, entranced by the sparks. She’s tempted to go back to the others, to talk about their first day as dead things, as hollow ghosts, but she finds herself more inclined to stay by the fireside and mourn the passing of her life quietly and privately.

The moon settles in the starless sky, and she does not wish for the sun to return for a long while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter and the incredibly long wait! This will most likely be the unofficial end to the series, I wanted to make it a little sad. Thank you so much for sticking with it and the odd ghost mechanics!


End file.
